Love Among the Ruins
by pale-jonquil
Summary: "When this bloody war is over, we'll find each other and I swear to you, I shall never let us be parted again." The evolution of England and Belgium's relationship, and Arthur's resolve to keep a childhood promise he made to Marie as the world is thrown into two devastating wars.
1. Chapter 1

Hi guys! Got another de-anon from the kink meme: _England is known for gardening, right? Well as this anon well knows, gardening can be really hard work. So Anon would like to ask for England getting caught working in the garden by another country while he's doing something that gets him all hot and sweaty. And they jump him for hot, dirty, sweaty sex. Bonus 1: It's a fem nation, like Belgium or Hungary. Anon likes yaoi (a lot), just thinks it might be fun to try this one het._ _Bonus 2: It was hot and sweaty work, so England had his shirt off, leading to...Bonus __3: England has a nipple piercing his partner didn't know about._**  
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Please enjoy and let me know what you think! : )**  
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**Love Among the Ruins**

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"_And the Lord God said, 'It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make a helper suitable for him.'" — Genesis 2:18_

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CHAPTER ONE — Where a Multitude of Men Breathed Joy and Woe Long Ago

_August, 1914_

Marie can't remember the last time it rained so hard. A flash of light pierces the dark room — thunder lashes across the skies, lightning crackles — and the walls shake. She nearly jumps out of her skin, every hair on her neck and arms standing on end.

She notices Arthur and Francis jump as well, which she finds telling.

Brussels has been assailed by rain all day, though it didn't turn violent until a few hours ago. Candles flicker around them, set up after the lightning knocked out the electricity.

The only sound in the room besides the rain is the scratching of Marie's pen against paper. When she's finished writing her response to Ludwig's ultimatum, she gently lays down her pen and looks over her words.

After so many drafts, she supposes this is as satisfied as she's going to be, and pushes the paper across the table to Arthur. With a heavy sigh, he takes it, and leans back in his high-backed chair as he reads it over. The candlelight does nothing to lessen the severity of the frown on his face.

When he's finished, he sets the paper on the table and pushes it toward Francis, who doesn't even reach for it. Elbows on the table, his chin resting on his knuckles, he only glances it over.

"These are strong words, ma chère," he says, glancing at Marie. "Are you sure this is how you want it to be?"

Outside the window, the thunder rumbles.

"I really don't see how it could be any other way."

"Well." Francis drops his hands, lightly thrums his fingers against the table. "And you, Angleterre? You do not have anything to add?"

Arthur rests his hand over his mouth, his thumb digging into his cheek. His eyes don't meet Francis' as he shakes his head.

Francis pushes himself away from the table, his chair harshly scraping against the floor.

"Then I take my leave of you," he says, a little loudly. "I intend to get roaring drunk tonight, and do not think I can start too soon."

After he's slung on his jacket, gathered his hat and his umbrella, he stoops to kiss Marie's cheek. As he passes Arthur, he rests a hand on his shoulder.

"When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"

"When the hurlyburly's done," Arthur replies, almost automatically. "When the battle's lost and won."

Francis scoffs. "Lost _and_ won? That will not do, mon ami. I am afraid we will be forced to pick one or the other."

And with a few strides of his long legs, Francis quits the room.

* * *

As she stands at the window and watches the rain, Marie shivers.

Arthur fetches her shawl and drapes it over her shoulders. There's no reason to smile now, but she does so, just a little and just for him.

He watches the rain beside her, and clasps her hand. Some 75 years ago, when the Treaty of London was signed, when she first gained her independence and neutrality, she secretly, enthusiastically clasped his under the table.

Lightning flashes, thunder claps, and she squeezes his hand.

"Do you regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Eighteen thirty-nine."

Arthur looks at her. All her fury and indignation when she first received the ultimatum —

"I'd like to know just _who,_ exactly, he thinks he is! And for that matter, who does he think _I _am?"

"_If Belgium adopts a friendly attitude,_ he says. The nerve of him is appalling!"

"_Germany will, to his regret, be compelled to consider Belgium as an enemy._ I'm almost glad, then. I'd rather be his enemy than be his _ragdoll,_ his _plaything_ — a toy owned by a _spoiled child._ Germany will, to his regret, be forced to humble himself."

— is nowhere to be seen now.

"Come here," he murmurs, holding out his arms to her, and she walks into them unhesitatingly.

"As long as there is a Belgium, there will always be an England behind her. I made you a promise, love, many years before the Treaty of London, and I intend to keep it for as long as we both shall live."

"You're too good," she says, her voice muffled against his chest. "Why do you always allow me to be such a burden to you?"

"You have never been a burden to me. I have only ever thought of you as — as — someone quite dear to me."

"I think you're the best man I've ever known."

He chuckles. "Not many others would venture to make such a claim, I assure you."

She pulls away enough to gently take his face in her hands, bring his forehead to rest against hers.

"You mean the _world_ to me — do you know that? And..."

He suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.

"There's no one I care for so much as you, my dear, _dear_ Arthur."

She kisses him then, softly, and it breaks his heart. To have waited _so long_ for this moment — to have her in his arms and move his lips against hers — to finally know her lips are indeed as soft as they look, and they mold to his so _perfectly,_ as though neither one of them was ever meant to kiss another —

All of it tempered by the fact that death is coming, and it's coming for her first.

"Darling," he gasps, breathless, stepping away from her. _"Don't."_

"But...why not?" She reaches out for him, a dejected look on her face. "Don't you…?"

He can't help but reach back.

"Yes, of _course_ I do, darling — you've no idea. It's only — "

He brings his trembling arms around her, holds her close, and his chest feels unbearably tight.

"This wretched _war,"_ he says, his voice breaking.

He knows he shouldn't be kissing her again — _death is coming_ — but he's so terribly in love, there's really nothing else he can do.

The lightning cracks in the sky, as violently as before, but neither of them jump.

* * *

_October, 57 B.C._

Arthur knows the frost is coming, and with it, death.

But he also knows he needn't worry — the fairies are clever creatures, and he's ever so chuffed they've taken a liking to him.

The last day of the harvest is the day the real world and the supernatural come close enough to almost touch, and magical things can happen. When the lighter part of the year becomes the darker, the fairies play tricks on the mortals, and sometimes even deign to reveal themselves to those without the sight.

And when they've had so much fun they can't keep their eyes open a moment longer, they curl up inside flower petals and sleep. They do not open their eyes again until spring. The harsh, cruel winter leaves the earth in ruins, but the fairies, generous from being so well-rested, bring back color and gaiety into the world, and begin preparations for their upcoming night of mischief.

* * *

He can't do much for the fairies, but he must do _something,_ he decides. And so, before the end of every harvest season, young Arthur can be found pulling up weeds from any flower patch he comes across. He plunges his bare hands into the soft earth, watches as it crumbles around his fingers, molds around his tiny wrists. It's the beginning of his love affair with the tales and textures of the land.

One day, Rome drags him away from his faithful toiling.

"There's someone I want you to meet," he says. "Her people are the bravest I've ever seen, and" — he rubs at a fresh scar on his forearm — "some of the strongest, too. Be nice to her, okay?"

Rome suddenly grabs Arthur's hands and turns them over, inspects them. "Why are your hands so dirty? You won't ever make any friends with dirty hands."

But just like his fairies, the girl with the easy smile and the bow in her hair doesn't once mention the dirt under his fingernails.

* * *

When Arthur grows up, he won't be afraid of anything, but as a child, he was terrified of heights.

"Catch me if you can, Arthur!" Marie yells as she runs along the top of an old Roman wall, now nothing more than a sad heap of large stones to those who wouldn't know otherwise.

But when he doesn't give chase, only stands there balling his fists, his face turning red, she walks back to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't — don't go where I can't follow."

She blinks, confused. "What do you mean?"

What Arthur wants to say is: _Don't leave me behind. I am sick to death of my brothers always leaving me behind. Not you, too._

But he can't bring himself to be so honest, so what he ends up saying is: "I'm not fond of heights, so I can't go chasing off after you, and if I lost you, Rome would box my ears. I don't care a fig what happens to you, I just don't want Rome to be angry at me."

She smiles and holds her hand out to him. He looks at it warily for a few moments, unsure what to do, but he eventually slips his hand into hers. She pulls, he climbs, and with some gentle coaxing, she's able to sooth his fears. Side by side, hand in hand, they walk along the ruins together until her foot slips and she tumbles to the ground.

Arthur immediately slides off the wall and lands a little roughly on the ground beside her. He's pleasantly surprised to find that even though she's twisted her ankle, she's not shed a single tear over it.

* * *

"You know," Marie says, holding onto Arthur's shoulders as he carries her home on his back, "your hair is just fine the way it is. I know Francis is bigger than us and he can be kind of a bully, but don't let him get to you."

"That's easier said than done," he mutters. With a jerk of his arms, he lifts her higher upon his back, and she giggles in delight at the gentle jostling. Her laughter reminds him of the fairies — it tickles his brain and warms him through and through.

(Magical things are happening.)

"_I_ like you, Arthur, and I think you're perfect just the way you are."

His face suddenly feels hot, and the harder he tries not to blush, the redder he becomes.

"Don't tease me," he gruffly orders, but thinks: _Not you, too._

"Oh, but I'm not! Honest!"

He jolts to a halt and turns his head to look at her, intending to scold her something fierce, scream at her, tell her she's just like all the others. But as he looks into her honest, sincere eyes, every thought in his brain disappears, save one.

_She thinks I'm perfect just the way I am._

And he adores her for it.

* * *

_August, 1914_

"You cannot possibly know," he pants against her ear as he moves with her, within her, "how long I have _adored_ you, my darling, _darling_ girl."

She holds him as close as she can, wraps her arms and her legs and her heart around him as she half-sighs, half-moans his name.

A part of Marie knows he's spent hours worshipping her body, making ardent, unhurried love to her because he loves her so truly, so completely, calls her _my love_ and _my darling girl_ and _my angel_ — tells her _you're so beautiful_ and _I would die without you_ — clasps her hand and laces their fingers together — kisses her neck until she's whimpering and begging him to never stop — thrusts into her so gently that she can't bear his tenderness, and then so roughly that she cries out in agonized pleasure.

But the other part of her knows the war will be a long one, and they must make this exquisite moment last.

The rain pounds viciously against her bedroom windows, and when she finally shudders and writhes and comes, there are tears in her eyes.

* * *

_April, 806_

As the sheep wait to be sheared, they bleat in that bored, apathetic way of theirs. It's the song of the hills, the song of Arthur's childhood.

"If you don't wear your hat," Marie says, setting his wide-brimmed hat upon his head, "your face is going to get too much sun. And then you'll be like me — with all these ugly freckles on your face."

Arthur rubs his nose and looks away. "Freckles aren't entirely disagreeable," he mutters.

She buys his wool, weaves it into fancy clothes, and sells it to all her neighbors at a higher price than what she originally bought it for. She's so bleeding _clever,_ just like his fairies, and though he hasn't quite caught up with her yet _(poor boy, rich girl),_ he's both proud of and happy for her.

But Arthur isn't the only one who's fascinated with her cleverness.

"Francis is asking me to come live with him again," she sighs.

"That smarmy bastard!" He clenches his fists. "If he ever tries anything — _anything at all,_ do you hear? — you let me know, and I'll gladly — "

She bats at the air with her hand, waves away his worries. "Oh, he's interested in a new thing every week, so I'm sure this will all come to nothing. You know how dramatic he likes to be, how much he loves to put on a show."

"Yes, but…" Arthur looks down at his clenched hands, dirty from planting flowers in his garden earlier.

"Don't worry. I know my nobles are technically vassals of his king, but everyone knows what the merchants want, the merchants get, and they'd rather keep things the way they are now — trading with _you_ instead of being forced to grovel to _him._ And…Francis is just jealous, I think." She covers his dirty hand with one of her own. "He knows I like you better than anyone, and he can't stand not being the center of attention."

"I — well — " He blushes, and turns his head so she can't see it. "Of _course_ you like me better than him. I'm not a loud, foppish twit who cleans his teeth with wine in the mornings."

She throws her head back and laughs.

He can't do much for her, but he must do _something,_ he decides.

"I mean it, though, truly," Arthur says, as serious as he's ever been in his young life. "If you ever need me for anything, I'll be there. I'll help you and protect you no matter what. It's a promise."

"I'm so glad we're friends, Arthur," she says, her smile brighter than the sun. "And if _you_ ever need _me,_ I promise I'll be there for you, too. Though I hope it doesn't come to that. Maybe all of us won't always get along, but we're_ always_ going to be neighbors, and surely — "

Suddenly, a sheep bleats so loudly that it sounds almost like a cry for help. Arthur and Marie jump down from the wooden fence and run over, only to find that one of the shearers has accidently cut the animal deep enough to draw rivers of blood. The poor animal writes and moans, inconsolable, as it bleeds out. Eventually it dies, broken and alone.

* * *

_June, 1340_

Arthur and Francis dislike each other for enough reasons that, eventually, they forget what originally triggered it.

Accordingly, they decide to indulge themselves, and engage each other in a war that lasts more than a hundred years.

Arthur warns Marie of the possibility that some fighting may occur in the Low Countries, but swears to her he will not fight on her or her brothers' land if he can help it.

Reluctantly, she acquiesces, and makes him promise this won't become a trend.

"I have no wish to become the battlefield of Europe," she says.

It is, perhaps, the only promise he makes to her that he will not be able to keep.

* * *

Years and years later, when Arthur finds Alfred, Marie is the first person he tells.

Years and years after that, when Arthur loses Alfred, Marie is the first person he goes to for comfort.

He knows, as he sails away from the shores of America one final time, defeated and dejected, what everyone back home must be saying about him, how hard they must be laughing at his expense.

But Marie does not laugh. She doesn't say anything, in fact, only holds out her arms for him. Though he is a changed man _(rich girl, filthy rich boy)_, he walks into her arms as he has countless times before.

_You won't ever make any friends with dirty hands,_ Rome once said, but that's alright — he doesn't _want_ any friends. The only person he needs is Marie, and though they cannot always be together _("It's fun helping Antonio raise Lovi because he reminds me so much of you"),_ she's never forsaken him.

He rages and nearly breaks completely when Francis forces her to live with him. The only comfort is that she didn't go willingly.

* * *

To say that Arthur _hates_ Francis is to do him too little credit, for hate is a rather childish term, and they are no longer children.

When they were children, they spoke like children, thought like children, reasoned like children. When they became men, they put their childish ways behind them, and replaced it all with _empire._

Empire is, in fact, much like playing a game of chess; neither chess nor empire is a game meant for children.

(Children do not respect the rules, or their opponent.)

* * *

Francis doesn't figure out what's really going on until one night in 1815, after he's downed three glasses of wine in less than half an hour.

"Mon Dieu!" he growls, tugging at his hair and pacing to and fro in his parlor. "I am tired of playing this game! That man is like a child who cannot make up his mind. You either love your wife, _or you_ _don't!_ You either want to take over the world, _or you_ _don't!"_

He falls face-first onto his sofa, his body bouncing lightly before it settles against the cushions.

His voice is muffled: "I want _so badly_ to slap Bonaparte around a bit and tell him to stop stringing me along. It is_ most_ indecent of him."

Arthur idly turns the page of a book he's long since stopped paying any real attention to. "There, there," he mutters, flatly — though, in his own way, not unkindly. (Anyone other than Francis, and they might be offended by his tone.)

Suddenly, Francis reaches out and grabs the ribbon hanging from Arthur's book. He inspects it, his bleary, alcohol-veiled eyes comically earnest. He runs his fingers over the intricate stitching, and recognizes it as one he himself gave to Marie years ago.

And then Francis laughs and laughs, for now he knows what the past twelve years of constant fighting have _really_ been about: The little black sheep is in love.

He's still laughing as Arthur snatches back the ribbon and storms out of the house.

* * *

_August, 1914_

There is no time to languorously enjoy each other the morning after. Arthur leaves early to prepare his empire for war, and Marie prepares to officially decline Ludwig's ultimatum.

She wonders how long he's been planning something, because he's there to meet her the very next day.

* * *

"Would you care for a cigarette?" Ludwig asks, holding one out to her.

She shakes her head and turns up her nose. "No, thank you."

He pockets it, and flicks his own half-finished cigarette over one of the crumbled walls of Fort Fléron. "A refined, genteel lady — a perfect match for an English gentleman."

She grits her teeth and decides to ignore the derision in his tone.

"I'm not being _genteel._ I'm being _civil."_

"It wasn't very civil of you to shoot at my men when they came to request a surrender."

"It wasn't very civil of you to send them in the first place. It was incredibly insulting."

He sighs. "I have no quarrel with you, only Bonnefoy and Braginski. This is nothing personal, but you are making it very much so."

"I am doing no such thing!" she shouts. "You just don't _get_ it, do you? I am to be addressed and treated as a fellow nation, not an inconvenience. I have been sovereign for _years,_ and will _not_ be treated as though I were dirt under your boots!"

She begins to pace around the tiny room, rubbing her forehead and biting her lip. She can see, very clearly, that where there were once reserves of ammunition, only empty space now remains. Though Fléron has fallen (the ruined wall before them is still crumbling, in fact), surely the other eleven forts of Liège can hold out.

_Surely — surely —_

"You don't have to do this," she says, two weeks of fighting not enough to break her, but enough to warn her. "You _don't."_

"Yes, I do."

"Says who?"

"They told me — "

He clears his throat and looks away. After he's composed himself: "I have been very reliably informed that this is what's best."

Her expression changes ever so slightly.

"Who are _they?" _she asks, carefully.

He flushes, angry and embarrassed.

"No one — "

"Can't you see what's going to happen?"

"Stop it," he says, bringing his fingers to his temples.

"This will last for years and years — think of what it will mean — "

"Shut up."

"You don't have to do this."

"I said _stop."_

"You were such a sweet child, once, and — "

"_Enough!"_ he shouts, and brings his hand up to strike her.

* * *

Marie does not particularly like war, nor does she believe in it as a means to solve problems.

But today is the day she decides to stop being neutral, because some things are worth fighting for.

It was worth it, she thinks, pitting her outnumbered infantry against Francis' larger and more experienced cavalry all those years ago. It was worth fighting her brother — who used to take her fishing when she was a child — to gain her independence. When she was forced to live with Francis, it was worth keeping up that clandestine correspondence with Arthur, just as it was worth sneaking out to stand beside him upon the field of Waterloo.

Fighting Ludwig these past two weeks has been worth every second of it.

The person you were born to be reveals themself in tiny increments, and the defining moment of Marie's life has come: She is a _fighter._ Not because anyone calls her so, and not because events in history have conspired around her. She is fighter because she was never meant to simply stand aside and do nothing.

* * *

As swift as a cat, she ducks and darts away from Ludwig's hand.

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she reels back and slaps him across his face for all she's worth.

He holds his stinging cheek and stumbles backward, his eyes wide and watery.

"You are a nothing but a _child,"_ she spits. "You had a _choice."_

She knows he has a pistol. She knows, as she walks away from him, out from among the ruins of the captured fort, that she's exposing her back to the enemy. She knows children do not respect the rules, or their opponents.

But she can't bring herself to care, because it's worth it just to say: "You are a child, but a _man_ can stand up."

* * *

A few weeks later in Mons, in the town square where St. George battles the dragon every year as part of the summer festival, Arthur frantically searches for Marie.

He and his men are withdrawing, though there's no shame in it — they've given Ludwig a damn good thrashing, by God, and though they haven't been able to halt Ludwig's advance upon Paris, they've at least delayed it. They march through the square, the villagers bidding them a fond, boisterous farewell. If one did not know any better, one could easily be forgiven for assuming it was a welcoming home parade.

But it's Marie who finds _him,_ runs to him, leaps into his arms.

"Arthur," she gasps, "Arthur, I can't _breathe."_

He's slightly taken aback at first — he wasn't holding her as tight as all _that,_ was he? He pulls away, and sees her eyes are welling with unshed tears, her breathing shallow and erratic.

He cradles her face in his dirty hands, holds it close to his own. He knows if he doesn't calm her down, he's going to lose his nerve, too.

"Steady on," he gently whispers, his eyes never leaving hers. "Listen to my breathing, darling, and breathe with me — can you do that?"

She nods, and tries to match him breath for deep, slow breath. Her panic lessens, and eventually fades.

His soldiers continue marching through the square, singing and kicking up dust as they go. The villagers sing along with them.

"You must _promise_ me — " he starts.

"Yes — I do, I promise — "

March, left, march, right…

"Do you know what Rome told me before I first met you, my love?"

She shakes her head.

"He said your people were the bravest and the strongest he'd ever seen. Bloody fucking _Rome_ said that, Marie, and it's true. You are the bravest, strongest, _best_ woman I've ever met. So you must promise me — "

"Yes — "

" — that you will never give up. You are never to stop fighting, you are never to give in — do you hear me? _Never,_ not even for a moment. And don't you _ever_ disappoint me so badly as to begin to _despair."_

"I won't," she says, flinging her arms around his neck, clinging to him, and they can feel their hearts beating wildly against each other. "I love you _so much,_ Arthur."

His lips find hers, sealing her promise with a hard kiss.

"I'm going to hold you to that," he says, a ghost of his usual grin on his face.

"You better." And for all the hell surrounding them, awaiting them, she smiles a bit as well.

He kisses her again, but when he breaks away to join his men and pursue the dragon, he can't bring himself to look at her face one final time.

_(Death is coming.)_

* * *

_November, 1916_

In the ruins of an ancient church not far from either of their borders, Marie and Francis huddle together under a blanket, their feet resting on the pews in front of them. A bottle of whiskey passes back and forth between them.

"During this war, more so than any other, I cannot help but think of the _most_ inappropriate things."

She snorts.

"This is no laughing matter!" he chides. "Go on, ask me what I am thinking about right now."

"Francis, what are you thinking about right now?"

"Our childhood. Even now, after all that has happened with Verdun, that is all I can recall. Or all that I am willing to recall." He takes a sip from the bottle. "I cannot stop thinking of riding my pony with Antonio, or swimming with you in the Sambre, or cutting Angleterre's hair."

As he drinks, he reaches out to ruffle her hair. "He loves you, you silly goose. He has been a greedy bastard all his life, but he has never treasured anything the way he does you."

"I know," she says, closing her eyes, sighing deeply. She wants so _badly_ to have a good cry, but through sheer willpower, forces herself not to. She's promised herself not to shed any tears until this war is over.

"But what on God's red, dead earth do you see in him? He is stubborn to the point of stupidity."

"He's brave and determined."

"He holds grudges."

"He's loyal and keeps his promises."

"And most unforgiveable of all, his smile is crooked." Francis takes a sip. "When he actually bothers to smile, that is."

"I'll give you that, but I love his lopsided grin. Actually, it reminds me of that song — "

She grabs the bottle, takes a sip, and raises it high as though in a toast. She begins to sing, softly and a little off-key:

_Private Perks went a-marching into Flanders with his smile, his funny smile  
He was loved by the privates and commanders for his smile, his funny smile  
When a throng of Germans came along with a mighty swing, Perks yelled out,  
"This little bunch is mine! Keep your heads down, boys, and sing!"_

"I don't feel like singing," Francis whines, reaching for the bottle. "I feel like _drinking."_

What a shame, she thinks. She doesn't really feel like singing, either.

"The more you drink, the worse you'll feel come morning." She sets the bottle on the floor, far from Francis' reach.

He yawns then, wide and loud, and slouches down into the pew, throwing a companionable arm around her.

"That is impossible, ma chère," he slurs, more from exhaustion than drink. "Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man, mmm?"

"Courage, man," she replies. "The hurt cannot be much."

Marie's eyes feel dreadfully heavy, and as she rests her head on Francis' shoulder, she thinks of Arthur, as she often does before sleep overtakes her — thinks of the lopsided grin she loves so much, thinks of his heavy whispers against her ear and the smell of his hair —

"The war will end," she sighs, "and we'll all be together again. You and I will go swimming, and you can fuss over Arthur's hair all you want. Just have faith."

Now it is his turn to snort.

"If not faith in God," she amends, "then at least have faith in Arthur. He's never let me down."

The next morning she wakes up with a headache, sore shoulders, and a heart so heavy it sinks down into her stomach and makes her feel sick — but all this is nothing new. Still, her eyes are dry, and that is something, at least.

_What's the use of worrying?  
It never was worthwhile,  
so pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag  
and smile, smile, smile._

* * *

It is said that God created Adam to tend to the Garden, and though the man wanted for nothing, he grew lonely. The Lord took pity on the man and decided to give him the gift of a woman — but not before He made him feel the _lack_ of her first.

Every animal of the earth was brought before the man, and he was tasked with bestowing a name upon each. As Adam watched the animals parade past, he grew even lonelier, for he knew there was no other creature like him anywhere on the earth.

But how much sweeter, then, was the revelation of the woman! She who was made to perfectly suit him in every way, to complete him.

And they walked upon the earth together, tended the garden together, and the man — never to be alone again — was finally happy.

* * *

It is also said that during their final departure from the horrors of the Somme, a group of English soldiers passed an abandoned, gutted farmhouse. And where a garden might once have been tended to, one of their own — a high-ranking officer with a mop of unruly blond hair — fell to his knees and wept.

_Please,_ he prays, the soft earth crumbling beneath his dirty fingers._ Each one of those brave, brave lads had a family, a history, a name. Be kinder to them than I have been, I beg you. And please, watch over her, keep her safe. I know I don't deserve it, and you'd be well within your rights to strike me down this very instant, but please — let me come back to her._

* * *

_November, 1918_

The dragon finally slain, Private Perks didn't go a-marching into Mons — he ran there as fast as his feet would carry him.

Matthew got there first, battling tirelessly through those last hundred days, and the war ends for the British Empire in the same town where it first began. Even the singing of the soldiers and the villagers sounds the same.

"Where is she?" Arthur demands, his eyes darting around the town square. "Tell me, have you seen her?"

"No, I'm sorry. I've been looking for her, but — "

Arthur suddenly reaches out and seizes Matthew's arm.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

Matthew follows his gaze, and sees what Arthur sees — Marie, not too far from them, smiling with her people and alive and _there._ Arthur can't bring himself to move, breathe, or _think,_ can only stand there watching her, completely captivated.

And poor Matthew doesn't want to be rude, but his arm is starting to hurt.

"Miss Belgium!" he cries, waving his other hand. "Miss Belgium — over here!"

She's smiling and laughing as she runs over to them _(she's back where she belongs,_ Arthur thinks as he holds her and strokes her hair_, not with Antonio or Roderich or Francis or her brother, but with me),_ and though it once reminded a young Arthur of the fairies, he'd wager now it's even sweeter.

* * *

Marie takes them to the hotel down the street and makes sure they are given the finest rooms available. She fetches clean clothes for them, tells them to use as much hot water as they like when they wash, makes them eat every bite of their dinner.

And at the end of it all, on the final night of the Great War, all Arthur wants to do is sleep.

He falls into the bed fully clothed, asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, but not before he wraps his arms around Marie. She drifts off into sleep sometime later, after her eyes have had their fill of him and she's allowed herself to finally have a good cry.

They sleep past the 11 o'clock armistice, sleep through the ringing of the church bells. When they wake, she teases him about his mussed hair, and he grins _(his smile, his funny smile)_ as he rolls her onto her back.

He kisses her — not a soft kiss, but neither is it a harsh one. Her mouth opens to his, and it thrills him that she's kissing him as hungrily as he's kissing her. After years of gas and barbed wire and shells and trenches, he savors the feel of her against him — her lips, her breasts, her hips, her legs, her heart.

_Don't go where I can't follow._

"I missed you," he tells her, so quietly she can barely hear him, and his heart aches as he says it.

"Oh, I know," she sighs. "But, dear — "

She traces his face with her fingertips as she kisses him, soft and lingering.

"Don't look so sad."

One of his hands begins unbuttoning her blouse; the other clasps her hand, laces their fingers together.

(Always, always together.)

The frost is coming, but if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

.

* * *

.

**Historical and literature notes (I really wish FF wasn't such a butt about posting links - BT - but regardless, feel free to skip):**

*"Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe long ago" is from English poet Robert Browning's poem _Love Among the Ruins._The poem is about a man who comes upon the ruins of a once-great city, musing over how splendid and opulent it must have once been. He's at the ruins with the blonde-haired girl he loves, and thinks how much better off he is, because all the riches in the world don't compare to the love he has with her, and "love is best."

*The German ultimatum was pretty dickish but the Belgian response was pretty classy.

*"When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?" and "When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won" from Shakespeare's _Macbeth_

*The area roughly corresponding to the modern-day Low Countries used to be a Roman province called Gallia Belgica. The indigenous people of this area were called the Belgae, and were a mixture of Celtic and Germanic tribes. They were well known for their bravery and opposition to Roman rule — historians think "Belgae" can translate to "the people who swell with anger and fury." Julius Caesar, who was ambushed by and almost lost to a certain Belgae tribe called the Nervii, often praised their valor and said in his _De Bello Gallico:_"Of them all, the Belgae are the bravest and the strongest."

*I really wish there was some canon interaction between these two. I don't believe nations _have_to have history between them for you to enjoy shipping them, but it sure does make my nerdy heart happy that EngBel have so much history together! Including wool trading. : ) And during the Hundred Years War, the major cities were on the side of the English king not only because they didn't want to lose their economic lifeline/one of their best trading partners, but also because France had a history of trying to fully integrate Belgium into its kingdom.

*So there were 7 coalitions of nations that fought against Napoleon. The Allies were constantly changing, some falling to the French Empire, some switching sides. But the one constant was always Britain. (OH ARTHUR.)

*I won't make Ludwig a monster, because I love him too much, and that's not who he is. I have a plan for him. : )

*The Battle of Liege and Fort Fleron

*When she fought Francis (Battle of the Golden Spurs) and her brother (Belgian Revolution)

*St. George is the patron saint of many things, England being one of them. : ) The festival in the Belgian city of Mons (Ducasse de Mons) and the Battle of Mons

*Verdun is to the French and German collective consciousness what the Somme is to the British.

*_Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile_, a popular British patriotic song of the time period

*"Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man" and "Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much" from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_

*"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, understood as a child..." 1 Corinthians 13:11

*Canada's Hundred Days and the Pursuit to Mons. Because the Canadians were badass during the First World War, ya heard?

*"O Wind, if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" from Shelley's _Ode to the West Wind_


	2. Chapter 2

**Love Among the Ruins**

.

CHAPTER TWO — And the Monarch and His Minions and His Dames Viewed the Games

_September, 1920_

The 1920s do not immediately roar to life, nor do they shimmer like gold, but they do carry with them the hope of new beginnings and fresh starts. No one knows what this new decade has in store for them, but after all the horrors the nations saw during the war, it would take a lot to disappoint them.

They needn't worry — Marie won't let that happen.

The Summer Olympics are held in Antwerp this year. No one can say she doesn't deserve to be host nation, and the symbolism behind it all is greatly appreciated, but sometimes symbolism is oblivious to cold, hard facts: With only one year to prepare, she doesn't really have the resources to put on the greatest show on earth.

But the odds have never scared her, and though the Olympians may not have the _best_ accommodations available, competitions are friendly and exciting, and no one walks away disappointed.

She and Arthur sit together during the closing ceremonies, and her heart swells as she watches the new Olympic flag wave triumphantly above athletes from all across the globe. (Sometimes, symbolism is oblivious to cold, hard facts: There will always be conflict, but there will also always something higher to aspire to.)

_We are all neighbors,_ _even those of us who don't share a border with each other. Never again, surely. Surely — surely —_

For all her natural optimism, she's still uneasy. The aggressors of the Great War were not forbidden to attend the games — that would be against the Olympic spirit — but neither were they issued an invitation.

"I wish I knew what Ludwig was up to," she says, twirling her parasol in her lace-gloved hands. "I've had letters from Roderich and Erzsébet, but haven't seen or heard from Ludwig."

Arthur snorts. "Probably still licking his wounds, after the thrashing he received."

"Oh, _Arthur. _Be kind."

"Why?" He turns to face her, his expression hard — when Arthur feels strongly about something, he will brook no opposition. "What _kindness_ does that blackguard deserve?"

She turns her gaze back to the ceremony. "I sometimes think we were…a bit harsh with him."

"Harsh?" Arthur scoffs. "I should think not. After what he did to Europe? To _you?"_

"But he wasn't the only one, and — "

_You were such a sweet child, once._

" — to be honest, when I signed the treaty at Versailles, I didn't feel victorious. I just felt sick and miserable afterwards."

Arthur crosses his arms and frowns out onto the field. "Blighter got what he deserved. You have a good, excellent heart, darling, but examples must be made, and we must not allow a precedent to be set. I cannot imagine what future generations would think of us if all we did was give him a slap on the wrist and send him to bed without dinner."

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, each pretending to watch the ceremony.

Arthur unfolds his arms and glances at her out of the corner of his eye. Her hair is swept up into an elegant chignon, giving him an enticing view of her neck. He wants very badly _(scandalously,_ _ungentlemanly)_ to remove her string of pearls and kiss her neck, plant one kiss for every pearl upon it.

"Are you going to be cross with me now, love?" he mumbles.

_If it really bothered me that much,_ she thinks, _I would have said something when it really mattered, right? Not now when it can't possibly make a bit of difference…_

"Oh, I'm always upset with you over _something,"_ she airily jokes, gently shoving at his shoulder, blessedly breaking the tension between them. "But — no," she finally decides. "What's done is done."

Grinning, she reaches over and sweeps his straw boater hat off his head.

"Besides," she says, playfully shoving it in his face, "I'm not done gloating over my cyclist beating yours in the 50 kilometer race."

He jams his hat back on his head and glowers at her.

"And my footballers — I'm so proud of them! Taking the gold as handedly as they did, when _everyone_ knows of your great love for the game, Mr. Kirkland."

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, well. You took your defeat at water polo with great aplomb, madam, I must say."

"I am woman enough to admit when I've been bested." She laces her arm through his and rests against his shoulder. "The tug-of-war competition, for example. You beating me in that was so devastating, I don't know _how_ I shall sleep tonight. Have you no sense of _honor,_ sir?"

She tilts her head to the side and pouts, furrows her brows in a look of mock-concentration. "Though I am disinclined to believe that's even a sport in the first place."

"It is if you win," he says with his lopsided grin. "And how nice it was to play at sailing again with Norway. We should all get together and do this again in another four years, eh?"

Taking off his hat, he holds it in front of them and shields their faces, confident that between his hat and her parasol, no one will see him lay a chaste kiss upon her neck.

She smiles, and the sight of it is all it takes to make him smile as well. She still feels a little uneasy, but surely it will pass — most things do, after all.

_(Surely — surely — )_

* * *

There is much dancing in the '20s, though neither of them is very good at it.

"I cannot get on at all," he complains, stopping them mid-step, looking at his feet. "I much prefer the country dances during the Regency to all this rubbish."

"Oh, you just miss gossiping with Miss Austen is all." She squeezes his hand and plays with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Besides, there were plenty of good things about those dances, dear, but there are plenty of good things about these new ones, too."

"I've yet to find a single one."

Marie hooks one of her legs around the back of his knee, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Have you noticed how much closer we can be when we dance like this?"

Arthur turns a furious shade of red. "I — you — "

She laughs and dips him.

* * *

There is much laughter, much off-key singing, and much love. Arthur finds his greatest joy is waking up next to the woman he loves, has always loved, and there are no prettier sounds than the light moans and sighs she makes as she sleeps next to him.

The fairies, whom he can still see but who do not appear as often as they did when he was a child, are jealous.

_You accept this woman as the keeper of your heart?_

_Yes._

_It would be so much easier for you to return to us. Where this love is leading you, Albion, we cannot follow._

He prepares the fairies for their slumber, plunging his bare hands into the soft earth, watching as it crumbles around his fingers, molds around his wrists.

_It would be easier, _he agrees, _but it wouldn't be love._

* * *

_January, 1933_

Apparently, the new Chancellor of Germany was a soldier during the Great War. (As hard as they've all tried, they can't escape it. They can dance and sing and laugh all they want through the Twenties, Roaring and Golden, but all roads lead back to gas and barbed wire and shells and trenches and _death.)_

Marie hears snippets of his speeches on the radio, full of disgust and indignation and accusations, and thinks he sounds like a narcissist and a child.

_I have been very reliably informed that this is what's best._

She never did find out who _they_ were.

* * *

_August, 1936_

"Awfully fond of their flag, aren't they?" Arthur murmurs.

In Berlin, the usual air of friendly camaraderie at the Summer Olympics has been replaced with an eerie sort of tenseness.

On the day of the opening ceremony, Marie sits with Arthur and notices that Ludwig doesn't seem to be enjoying himself. He keeps his distance from his boss and his other companions, does not participate in conversations except to answer questions with an indifferent _yes_ or _no_ or slight nod of his head.

Two weeks later, on the day of the closing ceremony, it appears his boss and his other companions have ostracized Ludwig completely. He keeps impossibly still in his seat, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed straight ahead. Though the others in the box laugh and banter loudly amongst themselves, no one speaks a word to Ludwig, and he does not speak a word to anyone.

Marie wonders how much of it is because he does not enjoy his present company, and how much of it is due to the rather large bandage covering his left cheek.

* * *

Children who play at empire do not respect the rules, or their opponents, and it isn't long before the Führer begins violating the Treaty of Versailles, and Marie feels sick and miserable all over again.

Most infuriating is when the child throws his tantrums, several people rush to coddle him.

"What the bloody _fuck_ is everyone doing?" Arthur screeches to her over the phone. "Have they all gone _mad?_ The only one who agrees with me is Churchill, but we can't get anyone to listen to a word of sense."

_Never again, surely. Surely — surely —_

* * *

_May, 1940_

On the day the only man who would agree with Arthur becomes his new prime minister, Marie and her brothers are invaded.

"It's just like before," Philippe says, his voice quivering. "It's exactly the same."

"Hush," Marie says, rocking the shaking child back and forth and stroking his hair.

"Marie — Marie, I can't do it," he says, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm not strong like you — and I'm scared — I _can't_ _— "_

"Oh, yes, you _can,"_ she says, vehemently, and holds him by his shoulders, looking intently into his eyes. "I don't _ever_ want to hear you say that again, young man — do you understand me?"

She pulls him back into a hug. "You are stronger than you know, I promise."

"But — "

"I know you're strong because I'm your sister, and I'm never wrong."

"We need to leave," Willem says, dropping the curtain and quickly walking away from the window.

"No!" Philippe cries, and clutches fiercely onto his sister.

"Baby," she soothes, and holds his face in her hands, "I have to. I have to go to my people, you know that."

Willem pulls them apart, drags Marie away.

"Remember what I said!" she yells to Philippe, glancing behind her as Willem escorts her to the car. "I love you, and I believe in you! I will see you soon, I promise!"

Willem grunts angrily and tugs on her arm. "He's just a child. Don't make promises you can't keep."

The last image she has of her baby brother is him waving to her, his face twisted as though from pain and his shoulders trembling from his sobs.

After the car turns a corner, and she's sure Philippe can't see her, she falls against Willem's shoulder and sobs, her throat going raw from the strain of it. Willem says nothing, only continues driving.

"Oh, _God!"_ she cries. "God! Our baby brother! There's got to be _something_ we can — some other way — "

"There's not."

* * *

After two weeks of fighting (and it's been worth it), Marie's king tells her he plans to surrender.

"You mean to surrender this battle," she says, nervously, leaning over his desk and tapping a map. "Because…surely you can't mean to surrender the entire nation?"

He shakes his head.

She backs away from him, her eyes wide. "No."

"Yes, België. België — I'm so sorry."

She begins to walk around the room, rubs her forehead, bites her lip. She turns, and quickly advances upon him.

"Arthur and Francis are out there, and their men are fighting with everything they've got!" she shouts, flailing her arms, a lock of hair falling in her face. "We can't just _leave_ them — we _can't._ If we do, we'll give the Germans an opening, and they'll take it, and then — then — "

"Our situation is hopeless," her king explains. "This entire situation is hopeless."

"You cannot even do this. You haven't consulted the ministers yet."

"As if I could, at this point."

"You may stand down the army, but do _not_ give up the country to that man. You can't do it _legally,_ and you certainly can't do it _morally."_

They stare at each other for some moments, neither backing down.

Marie realizes what is happening, and realizes what she must do. She begins gathering papers into a briefcase, not once making eye contact with him.

"Do you know what his ultimatum 26 years ago meant? It meant he respected neither me nor my people. It meant he completely disregarded our right to live in peace, and our right to object to his actions — our very right to exist as a sovereign nation, even. And you would have him do it again, but this time, you would _condone_ it."

She clicks the briefcase shut and slips on her gloves.

"That disgusts me, because that is not who we are. You have forgotten yourself, and you will bring shame upon us all."

She turns to leave. "Enjoy your puppet government."

He pounds his fist on the desk. "I will not let that happen!"

"Whatever you are planning, I refuse to have any part of it."

"België — where are you going?" he calls after her.

She stops.

_As long as there is a Belgium, there will always be an England behind her._

"To London. Perhaps to Paris first to regroup with the ministers, but London thereafter."

"What will you do?"

She continues walking.

"Stand up."

* * *

"You know what they say," Francis sighs almost happily as he and Arthur stand waist-deep in the waters off Dunkirk, waiting long into the night for the boats to take them and their men across the Channel to safety.

"I have a splitting headache, frog. I couldn't care less at the moment what _anyone_ has to say about _anything."_

"They say" — and here Francis pauses for dramatic effect, drops his voice to a whisper — "who you are in the dark shows who you really are."

"I swear to God, if you're entertaining even the _slightest_ notion of grabbing my arse — "

"Why so cruel, Angleterre?" Francis tuts. "I would never flirt with someone I knew belonged to another — it takes all the fun out of it. Besides, la belle Marie would pluck every hair from my body if I ever tried something on you."

Arthur imagines it, and grins. "Aye, that she would."

"Who knows, I might enjoy that, though."

The water laps steadily around them.

"Do not be a hero in this war," Francis suddenly says.

"What?"

"I said, do not be a hero in this war. I do not want to lose my best sparring partner."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I would grow ever so bored without you, Angleterre."

Arthur grins again. "Is that a declaration? I'm afraid you're losing your touch, friend." He pats Francis' back in a mock-commiserating manner, as he has many times before, but this time his hand lingers.

"Ah, but this is romantic in its own way, oui?" Francis' perfect teeth gleam in the darkness, and he sweeps his hand out over the water. "Only the very best for you, rosbif. I have brought you moonlight, the sea, the stars — "

Arthur's eyes widen. "I'll be damned."

"Oh, but you already are, mon ami. Myself as well, I am sure."

"No, you pillock, _look!"_ Arthur shouts, grabbing Francis' shoulders and roughly turning him around.

"What? What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Look there!" Arthur points. "Do you know what sort of boats those are?"

Francis squints. "Ah…non."

"Those are Dutch coasters. Marie's brother must have sent them."

"I thought he hated you."

"Do you know what this means for us?"

"Non."

"The coasters have flat bottoms, idiot, which means they can get closer to the shore than other boats might."

"I do not have your years of experience in piracy, but this sounds like a good thing?"

In his excitement, Arthur reaches over and tugs on Francis' hair. "Yes, you daft fool — a very good thing, indeed."

Once their men have boarded the coasters and Arthur and Francis are aboard the _Patria,_ the captain asks if there's an Arthur Kirkland among them, for he has a message.

Arthur takes the note and reads:

_You have been good to my sister.  
Keep her smiling.  
Do what you can, and veel geluk._

* * *

_June, 1940_

"_What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin."_

_.  
_

* * *

_._

**Historical and literary notes (feel free to skip):**_  
_

*"And the monarch and his minions and his dames viewed the games" from Browning's _Love Among the Ruins_

*The 1920 Summer Olympics were the first games where the famous flag with five rings was flown – and then later stolen by an American as a prank. OH AMURICA. Boring Olympic Statistics: In 50 kilometer track cycling, Belgium took 1st, UK 2nd. In football it's soccer halp i'm american and different, Belgium took 1st, UK didn't medal (oh-ho). In water polo, UK took 1st, Belgium 2nd. In tug of war (lol whuuut), UK took 1st, Belgium 3rd. In 7 meter sailing, UK took 1st, the Vikings Norway took 2nd. They were the only two nations competing in that event though, lawl.

*The Roaring Twenties (Golden Twenties in Europe) didn't start off so great, what with the economy all _kinds_of fucked after the war, but they eventually picked up…before taking an infamous turn for the worse in 1929.

*Arthur needs to be drawn in a boater hat, he'd be adorable in one. _(Don't mind me, just casually squealing over here…)_

*"Awfully fond of their flag, aren't they?" The Nazi flag was draped _all_ over the Olympic stadium for the Berlin games.

*Violations of the Treaty of Versailles

*So Britain and France came over to fight with the Low Countries against the invading Germans (see: Phoney War). The Netherlands and Luxembourg had already surrendered, but when the Belgian king surrendered, cue SHOCK and OUTRAGE and much WTF-age. The Allies saw it as a betrayal and him collaborating with the Nazis. His view was that it was just an unconditional surrender, not a lovefest, as collaboration would suggest. The Belgian government, headed by the prime minister, was very "lol no" about it — the king had assumed command of the army, so he could surrender the battle, but not the entire country without first having the ministers' approval. But the king had never really gotten along with his ministers, and had a history of doing what he wanted without their consent. The ministers went off first to Paris, but when France fell, they took the long way through neutral Spain and Portugal to get to London in order to form a government-in-exile as they no longer had any confidence in their king and couldn't get the parliament together in time to have a vote on what exactly the fuck they should do — first a war, and now a fucking constitutional crisis? AWESOME, GUYS, AWESOME.

But, a good thing to come out of it was the Belgian Resistance. They were very awesome in a "hold up guys we got this" and "YOU GON LEARN TODAY" kinda way. So. Anyways, when the king (who was kind of a dick? He wrote a letter saying that if the Allies came back into Belgium, it would be an "occupation," not a "liberation" — _uh say whaaaa)_ surrendered, it left a huge gap in the French and British defenses. So they retreated, and Dunkirk happened. Yay, more soldiers than we were expecting were saved and evacuated! Boo, this whole battle was a _horrendous failure _and oh look there goes the neighborhood don't the new neighbors look nice we should bring those wacky Nazis a cake sometime.

*The Dutch coasters

*"veel geluk" is (hopefully) Dutch for "good luck"

*"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin" from Churchill's June 18, 1940 "This Was Their Finest Hour" speech_  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**Love Among the Ruins**

.

CHAPTER THREE — Love is Best

_October, 1940_

When Marie arrives in London, she's shocked by the wreckage. She's seen it ravaged by plague and has listened to Arthur's stories about the Great Fire, but there's nothing so disquieting as seeing another nation's destructive influence upon one's capital.

Even Arthur himself couldn't escape the bombs; a corner of his house and part of his roof now lay in his garden.

"Oh, Arthur," she breathes, reaching for him, "I'm so sorry."

He reaches back, nudging a piece of broken brick with his foot.

"Whatever for?" he asks. "It rather improves the view, I think."

* * *

Some nights in London are better than others.

Some nights, the distant bombs are as rumbling thunder — distracted, rummaging, unsure where everyone is hiding. Others, the city is found out, the bombs _screaming_ as they make their descent. In a way, it reminds Arthur of the first war, this being forced to hurry up and wait out the terror.

But there's a silent promise between Arthur and his people reaffirmed with every nod of the head, every wave, every tip of the hat. Five centuries of architecture can be destroyed in as little as five minutes, but they bow to no one.

He and Marie are walking arm-in-arm down the street one day when they come across an old woman diligently sweeping up her walkway, though her house no longer has a roof.

"My best soldiers," Arthur tells her, a proud gleam in his eye, "are my civilians."

And though Marie hasn't really been feeling sorry for herself, her mind has been uncomfortably uneasy ever since she was forced to flee her land. She's a fighter, but she's starting to realize that sometimes, surviving can be the bravest thing in the world.

* * *

She sleeps past noon most days, and though Arthur is an early riser, he doesn't disturb her. Anytime he wishes to wake her, he only ends up sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her for a few moments, brushing the hair from her face.

He makes sure to leave a fresh flower by her pillow every morning, though when she asks him about it, he'll hand her a cup of tea and deny it. She has to kiss the truth out of him most days, but neither complains.

One morning, though, she wakes with a start. She jolts completely upright, her heart racing, and shudders. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and, looking around Arthur's empty bedroom, realizes she must have been dreaming. She rolls her eyes and falls back upon her pillow, chuckling at herself for being so silly.

Next to a pink rose, Arthur left a note explaining he'd left early that morning to visit a hospital. She picks up the rose and inhales deeply, twisting it between her fingers. Try as she might, she can't remember what she was dreaming about, exactly, but there was a strange sort of whispering in her ear that tickled her brain and warmed her through and through.

"_Courage,"_ it sounded like, but she can't be sure.

* * *

Late one afternoon, close to dusk, she slides onto his lap as he reads in his favorite chair. She settles in, cuddling close as one of his arms goes around her, and hands him a well-worn book from his library.

"Read to me?"

He can never refuse her anything, and in the dulcet tones she adores, begins to recite:

_Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles  
Miles and miles  
On the solitary pastures where our sheep  
Half-asleep  
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop  
As they crop —  
Was the site once of a city great and gay,  
(So they say)  
Of our country's very capital, its prince  
Ages since  
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far  
Peace or war._

She sighs, lightly tracing a fold of his shirt with her finger. "I've always loved your accent."

"Fuck, shit, piss."

She throws her head back and laughs, and Arthur's heart unravels a bit in his chest. He's missed the sound of her easy, ready laughter during these dark days and even darker nights, missed the way it cheers him.

When she's regained her breath, she looks at him softly and caresses his cheek with her hand. He leans into her touch, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"I've been thinking," she quietly begins.

"Dangerous pastime, that."

Her lips quiver upward slightly, but she continues: "This is all my fault, isn't it?"

His eyes snap open.

"What can you mean?" he asks, setting the book aside and shifting his body so he can search her face. His expression twists harshly, entirely incredulous at what he's hearing. "Don't you dare do that. Don't you think for even the _slightest_ moment any of this is your doing, Marie. You know better."

"Do I?" she sadly sighs, refusing to meet his eyes, fiddling with a button on his shirt. "Even your prime minister mentioned it once. 'This monstrous product of former wrongs and shame,' he said."

"He has also repeatedly called Ludwig's boss a liar and a wicked man — which, make no mistake, he _is_ — and that if it did come to war, there would be no doubt upon whose head the guilt would fall."

She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him.

"Remember how awful I felt after the Treaty of Versailles was signed?" she whispers. "But I didn't speak up, did I? Didn't do a thing to change something I had serious misgivings about. I've _never_ spoken up when I should have. I didn't know how to start speaking up until I was independent, but even that didn't stop me from falling back into that stupid old habit now, did it? And that…" She swallows, and two large tears fall down her cheeks. "That makes me culpable."

Arthur is so shocked he cannot even move a limb. Her fortitude is one of the things he most admires about her, but the times he _has_ seen her break down, he was entirely, _stupidly_ unsure of what to say or do. He has always relied on her to be the perfect antidote to his harshness and cynicism, but what sort of gentleman would he be if he let the woman he loves down when she needed him most?

"My darling," he soothes, holding her tightly. "My darling, darling girl. You know I would never lie to you?"

She nods.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she mumbles, brokenly.

"Then hear this, my love: Nations are guilty of all manner of things, but in this you are blameless. No one has a greater wish for peace among nations than you." He chuckles, and cups the back of her head in his hand. "Only _think_ of some of the things the frog and I would have gone to war over if you hadn't been there to talk some bloody sense into us."

She chuckles, too.

"The only thing you are guilty of, dear girl, is getting caught up in things beyond your control. That, and — and stealing the heart right out from me."

"So now I'm a thief?" She leans out of his embrace and manages to smile a little for him, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "You're going to ruin my reputation, Mr. Kirkland."

He tangles his fingers in her hair. "It's not much of a heart, you know. It's not very big, and it's selfish, and it's a tad stubborn — "

"Only a tad?" she asks, giving him a knowing look.

"It can be cranky and hateful," he continues, letting her have her fun, "but it's always been yours, entirely. Darling, you've always been kind to me — kinder than I deserve. And — well — "

His cheeks turn red, and he looks away.

"Just — just promise me that whatever it is you see in me…don't lose sight of that. Because I simply couldn't bear being in this world without you, and — "

"Hush," she whispers, laying a finger on his lips. She kisses him, her lips light as feather upon his.

(There are many things she sees in him, though perhaps one thing above all others.

She lay atop him yesterday afternoon, the lovemaking finished, panting into his sweaty, feverish neck. Her hair was strewn over his face, tickling his nose, fluttering as he struggled to calm his own labored breathing. He snaked his arms up to lock possessively around her, and it felt, for a moment, as though they shared one body.

"I love your strong pirate arms," she murmured into his ear. "You could make me do anything you wanted with them, but you'd never _force_ me to do anything, and I love you for it."

She wasn't only talking about his behavior inside the bedroom.)

"After two thousand years, madam," he says, already missing the taste of her when she pulls her lips away, "I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

She smiles warmly and rests her forehead against his. "You're stuck with me, too."

Good Lord, but he loves kissing her — he should have started kissing her _centuries_ ago, he thinks, as their lips meet again. Every kiss of hers sends a wave of pleasure up his spine, and she makes his heart flutter in ways he didn't know were possible.

She unfastens the first two buttons of his shirt and pulls it back a bit, exposing some of his collarbone. Slipping her hand past his collar, she curls her fingers around the base of his neck and deepens the kiss. She can feel his fingers gripping her, eagerly digging into her skin through her dress, and lightly moans into his mouth.

"Come along, woman," he says, grinning, and rises from his chair with her in his arms.

"Just where do you think you're taking me, sir?"

"Why, to my bedroom, of course."

She gasps in mock horror. "Rake!" she shouts. "Libertine!"

"We've only an hour of daylight left, at most, and I've no intention of wasting it."

* * *

As much as Marie loves Arthur and their time together, she doesn't plan to stay in London long. Once she's sure her exiled government is set up properly and she's sure it can stand on its own, she knows, deep down in her bones, she has to return to her homeland and help the resistance.

She and Arthur are on their way to volunteer at a soup kitchen when she tells him.

He does not take the news well.

* * *

Arthur knows the frost is coming, and with it, death.

And so, he does what he has always done near the end of the harvest: He faithfully tends to his garden, preparing the fairies for their rest.

It's an unseasonably warm and humid day for October, so he stands only in an old pair of work trousers, having removed his shirt some time ago. He leans on his shovel and looks out over his garden — his poor garden, littered with bits and pieces of his house.

"Would you like some help?"

He turns, and sees Marie standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a glass of lemonade in her hand.

"Certainly not." He looks her over appreciatively before wiping his brow with the back of his dirty, ungloved hand. "I've heard you complain on more than one occasion about your black thumbs."

"Well, I can't deny that," she says with a shrug. "My brother won't even let me _look_ at his tulips."

She walks to him and offers him the glass, watches as he gulps it down and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, while another rolls down his stomach and disappears somewhere behind the band of his low-slung trousers.

"But," she says, stepping up onto a pile of bricks and balancing on one foot, holding her arms out, "I can at least help you pull up weeds. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

"Don't leave London."

Their eyes meet, green to green, and the look on her face is so sad he can't bear it. He thrusts the empty glass at her and storms away, making his way toward a pile of dirt. He begins spearing it mercilessly with his shovel.

"I'm well aware," he grunts, bringing up a mound of dirt, "that nothing I have to say shall stop you from leaving. And I think" — with a twist of his wrists, he dumps the dirt around a patch of foxgloves — "I always knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that you weren't going to stay."

He spears the pile of dirt again, thrusting the shovel into it.

"I know why you have to go. I applaud you for it. You are a woman of good sense — good sense being a rare commodity these days — "

_Thrust._

" — and you can always be relied upon to make decisions with your people's best interests at heart — "

_Thrust._

" — and I know _that_ is why you are going."

He straightens, sighs, and wipes his brow.

"I cannot be angry with you for wanting to be with your people when they most need you. But damn if it doesn't hurt like — like I know not what."

She watches him breathe for a few moments, the muscles of his back flexing ever so slightly and shining with sweat. She lightly hops down from the pile of bricks, her bare feet nestling in the warm grass, and carefully sets the empty glass on the ground.

Coming up to him, she pulls the rag from his back pocket and begins wiping his back. He turns his head slightly to glance at her over his shoulder.

"You're not supposed to go where I can't follow, remember?"

"I know."

"I won't be able to protect you, darling, and I have a dreadful feeling this war is going to be even worse than the previous one."

She passes the rag over one of his arms, and brings her other hand to rest flat against his stiff, tense back. "But you already have protected me, dear, so many times." She switches hands, and wipes down his other arm.

He tightens his grip around the shovel.

"If — if anything should happen to you, I would never forgive myself."

"Oh, _don't!"_ she cries, dropping the rag and tightly wrapping her arms around him. She rests her damp forehead against his spine and takes a few shuddering breaths, willing herself not to cry. She has ordered herself, much like during the first war, not to cry until this is all over.

"Don't," she quietly repeats. "I enjoy living too much to ever let anything happen to me. And I love you too much to not ever come back to you. And I'm going to give Ludwig two black eyes, you'll see. One for me, and one for you, and — "

He laughs suddenly, relaxing a little, and covers her hands with his free one. "Not if I beat you to it."

She laughs, too. "It's a bet, then. If I win, I get…"

"A ring."

She blinks. "A what?"

"A ring, if you want it. And not as England and Belgium — as _us."_

She freezes.

And then a smile spreads across her face, so big it makes her cheeks hurt. "Going to make me earn it, aren't you?"

"But of course."

She hugs him even tighter, pressing her wide smile into his slick back.

"And if you win?"

He drops the shovel, and so quickly she doesn't realize what he's doing at first, he turns and crushes his lips against hers. His arms go around her, and he lifts her up to him.

"I only want to hear you say, for the rest of our lives," he says as he walks her over to the garden's high stone wall, "that you love me."

"Oh, but you can have that now." She grins as he hoists up her against the wall and drapes her legs around his hips. "I love you, Mr. Kirkland."

"And I love you," he whispers in her ear, his breath warm and irresistible against her skin.

He lightly kisses the shell of her ear before nibbling on her earlobe. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and sighs contentedly.

She lolls her head to the side, allowing him access to her neck, and if he ever had wicked intentions toward her, the grin that spreads over his face would indeed be wicked. Her neck receives delicate, innocent kisses before he begins planting warm, open-mouthed ones up and down her neck.

He gently pulls the collar of her blouse aside, and he trails the warm, open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone — until he suddenly pulls away.

"Darling — "

"Why'd you stop?" she asks with a disappointed pout.

He wrinkles his nose. "I'm completely drenched with sweat, and I'm frightfully dirty."

"I don't care."

"You will care very much when I ruin your outfit."

Leaning her upper back against the wall, she jerks her hips out slightly, rubbing against him, and his eyelids flutter with a soft _oh._

"You're not going anywhere, sir," she says, tightening her legs around him.

_God, how I love her._

He raises his hands in surrender. "If that is what the lady wishes."

His fingers begin unbuttoning her blouse. For every button he opens, he ducks his head and kisses the spot on her skin it was covering — and, _oh,_ how he loves her skin, every single soft inch of it, always tempting his lips to kiss, his fingers to caress, to discover and rediscover, over and over again.

Though his hands may still tremble from time to time, he's no stranger to undressing her and makes quick work of her blouse. He pushes it away from her shoulders as she twists and slips out of it. Her camisole is next, over her head, and she bundles them in her hand, not wanting them to fall to the ground.

"I do not lament the decline of the corset," he casually mentions, dipping his head to pepper kisses over the swell of her breasts. "Not a jot."

She snorts. "You think _you_ don't miss them?"

When he dips his tongue between her breasts and bobs his head up and down, she tilts her head back against the wall and feels a little breathless. One of his hands runs up her back, and just when she's sure he's going to unhook her bra, he opens his mouth and sucks her nipple through the fabric, tickles it behind the lace with his tongue, and that leaves her _entirely_ breathless.

"Oh, _God,"_ she breathes, arching into his mouth. The fingers of her empty hand weave into his wet hair.

"Do you like that, darling?"

"Yes," she sighs.

"How much?" he asks, raising his head to grin at her, their noses touching.

"Oh, I could _slap_ you, you're so terrible," she huffs, smiling despite herself.

"Entirely diabolical, actually."

Thankfully, he's not yet finished with her nipple, and returns his attentions to it. _Oh, that wonderful, sharp tongue of his, _she thinks,_ I always knew it was meant for so much more than just horrible insults. _He runs his tongue over the fabric, lapping at her nipple until it grows hard. When he removes his mouth to suck and nibble on her other nipple, the lace is soaked, and the feel of it makes her wet in another place altogether.

He slowly begins licking his way back up her neck, skimming his tongue across her damp hairline and fiddling with the skin behind her ear. He works his way back down to the base of her neck, and gently bites her shoulder.

"But you didn't answer my question, love," he murmurs, huskily, and it makes her shiver all over, makes another wave of heat rush between her legs. "How much do you like it?"

"Ar_thur!" _she whines, grinding against him. She wants him, badly, and this is _not _helping.

"Answer me."

"_So, so much,"_ she harshly whispers into his ear. "You know I love anything you do to me, but — but put me down."

He looks at her, a confused look on his face. "What?"

"I don't mean stop!" she explains, her eyes heavy with desire. "This wall isn't all that comfortable, and…well, I want to touch you, all over, so…please?"

He stares at her face for a moment. Eventually, the corner of his mouth quirks up into that lopsided grin she loves so much.

"I say — is that a _blush,_ madam?"

"Maybe," she giggles, turning even redder.

As he carries her away from the wall, she throws her shirt and camisole onto the nearby iron-wrought table. He lays her down on a cool, shaded bit of soft grass close to the house, and begins unfastening her skirt. She easily shimmies out of it, and he tosses it onto the table with her other clothes.

He looks her over then, licking his lips as he takes in the sight of her in the grass before him. He loves her every way he can get her — tousled hair and warm limbs tangled up in his bed sheets first thing in the morning, on her sofa after a too-long separation — but he's never had her like_ this, _out of doors, so free and open, the both of them slick with sweat and need and lust.

Spreading her legs, he doesn't kiss his way up her thigh so much as he drags his lips across it, making her shudder and moan his name, and his heart feels impossibly light in his chest. He still, after all these years — after all the times she's panted _Arthur Arthur Arthur_ in his ear, all the times she's begged him _deeper_ or _give me more_ or _faster_ or _don't stop_ or _I love you I love you I love you_ — cannot quite believe his brilliant luck that she lets him love her, accepts his love, and returns it.

He runs his tongue across the gentle dip where her thigh ends, darts his tongue under the edge of her knickers and traces the skin beneath it — so close, but not at all where she _really_ wants it — until the only sounds out of her mouth are her perfectly delightful whimpers.

"My God!" she cries, arching back on her shoulder blades and laughing merrily. _"Why_ are you _teasing_ me like this? I'm sorry for whatever it was that I did!"

He doesn't answer, only slips his index finger under the edge of her panties and lightly traces the same path his tongue was following but a moment ago. It makes her skin tingle, and her hips jump in anticipation.

"You're awful," she groans.

"And you are lovely, my darling." He's pleased to see her panties are slightly wet from her eagerness, and he kisses the damp, delicate cloth.

She sighs, her eyelids fluttering, and rests a hand on the back of his head.

"The most beautiful, exquisite woman in all of creation," he says, continuing his reverent kissing.

The way her heart's melting, she can't really pretend to be upset with him any longer — not even when he moves away from that amazing spot and starts trailing kisses up her belly, drawing himself up and hovering over her.

"Last chance to go inside and do this properly," he says, though he hopes she won't take him up on it — the thought of having her like this, the dirt and the sweat between them, is actually quite appealing, and he can feel himself growing harder.

She rises up to kiss him, takes his lower lip between her own, flicks the tip of her tongue against his. She snakes her arms around his neck and pulls him down with her, a droplet of sweat rolling down his cheek and into her hair.

"I don't care where or how it's done," she whispers, brushing the hair from his eyes, "as long as I get to do it with _you _— as long as you make me yours."

Their mouths crash together, frenzied and feverish, their tongues and hands roaming everywhere but finding no particular spot to stay for long. She pulls him close, just like she always does, but her hands slip on his wet back. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she grinds up against him.

"Now _you_ answer _me,"_ she whispers against his lips, catching the surprised gasp right out of his mouth. "Do you like that, dear?"

"_Fuck,_ yes," he whispers back, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut.

She grinds against him again. "How much?"

"_Shit."_

She drops her legs. "How poetic!" she giggles, reaching down to fumble with the clasp of his trousers. He kicks off his work boots and between the two of them, they manage to rid him of his remaining clothes.

"It's poetry you want, is it?" he asks, playfully arching an eyebrow as he pulls her knickers off.

"_Really,_ dear," she says, unhooking her bra and tossing it aside, "it's the gentlemanly thing to do."

He holds one of her breasts in his hand, his thumb lightly caressing her nipple, hardening it.

"License my roving hands," he recites, his voice deep and dangerous, "and let them go before" — he palms her breast — "behind" — brings his hand down to squeeze her ass — "between" — lays the palm of his hand flat between her breasts and feels her heartbeat — "above" — traces the bridge of her nose with a finger — "below" — reaches down to cup her slit.

"Oh, Arthur…" she sighs, raising her hips against his palm, "I love you so, so much." She leans up to kiss his chin, his jaw, down his neck and across his shoulders. She begins sucking on his collarbone, and reaches a hand down to grab him and give him a few gentle strokes. He groans into her hair and rocks against her hand.

"I — I can't," he suddenly blurts.

She looks up at him with worried eyes. "Can't what, dear?"

"I can't — can't touch you. Not _there._ My hands — they're dirty."

"Dear," she pleads, every part of her electric and throbbing and in love with him, "dear, _dear_ — I don't care, just _touch_ me."

She may not care, but Arthur, as fastidious as ever, takes her hand and guides it between her own legs.

"Would you deny me even this simple pleasure, madam?" he asks with his funny smile. "I do so enjoy the sight of you pleasuring yourself."

She rolls her eyes. "I shouldn't, just to teach you a lesson." And it's not an empty threat, as she twists her wrist and begins stroking him again.

The sounds he makes as he begins thrusting against her fingers are muffled and unintelligible.

"Darling — are you — ?"

"Yes," she sighs, wrapping her legs around him and dragging him closer, closer, "yes — _now,_ please."

And how he would love to slide into her, to take her with one swift motion, but he eases into her, fills her slowly. She squeezes her eyes shut and throws her head back, arching up to welcome all of him into her. The heat and the wetness of her enclose around him so _perfectly,_ as though neither one of them was ever meant to love another —

"_Christ,"_ he moans as he buries his head in her shoulder.

"Yes," she agrees, holding him as close as she can while she kisses his cheek.

"God, but I love this — I love _you."_

"You know I love you, too," she whispers.

He lifts his head to meet her eyes, a serious expression on his face.

"We'll find each other," he says. "Depend upon it, my love — when this bloody war is over, we'll find each other and I swear to you, I shall never let us be parted again."

"It's a promise?" She wipes the sweat from his brow, cradles his face in her hands.

He grabs her wrist and kisses the palm of her hand. "It's a promise."

Arthur captures her mouth with his, seals the promise with a kiss, and drags her hand back down to her clit. When she begins fingering herself, he slowly begins thrusting into her.

She moans and thrashes her head back and forth as they find a rhythm, and Arthur notices there's a bit of grass in her wet hair. There's a dash of dirt on her flushed cheek as well — _so, so lovely,_ he thinks, each turn of her expression making his heart thrum — and he can smell the dirt and the grass around them. It's so unabashedly _naughty,_ all this reckless, wild abandon, and he's loving every second, every heartbeat of it.

No gentleman now, he tugs on her hair and forces her head back, revealing more of that divine neck he so much admires.

"She looked at me as she did love," he murmurs, his lips against her throat and his pace quickening, in and out and in and out, "and made sweet moan."

And she does — she moans and pants and sighs, meeting him thrust for thrust, rolling her hips with his. There's a burning in the pit of her belly, a ravenous _need_ for him, and the more she gets from him, the more she wants, the more she demands as she tightens her legs around him and forces him into her over and over and over, rubs her slick clit over and over and over.

She can't keep from writhing under him — her body feels like it's no longer under any of her own control, every inch of her useless save for responding to him, his thrusts and his kisses and his tongue and the call of his heart. Something about his tongue licking the soft underside of her breast sends a particularly pleasurable jolt through her, and she flings her free arm out onto the grass next to her head.

He clasps her hand then and laces their fingers together. Her heart swells as their eyes meet, and she falls a little more in love with him.

"Oh, _God,"_ she loudly sighs, their wet bodies sliding against each other, faster and faster, "Arthur, _Arthur…"_

"I'm here," he says, _promises,_ his lips close to hers, stealing away every sigh, drawing out every gasp.

"I'm so close — don't stop, I'm so close — "

"Don't wait," he pants, hooking one of her legs under his arm so he can fill her as much as she can handle, "don't wait, love — come, just for me, just for me."

There's a moment, before she finally comes, where she's right on the edge but doesn't feel like she'll ever finish, _please please oh please,_ but she eventually flings her face into his neck and comes, hard but with a soft cry. The feel of her clenching around him is all it takes for him to come as well, his breath momentarily hitching before a string of filthy pirate curses tumble out his mouth without his even knowing it. He squeezes her hand tightly in his, and they anchor each other as they ride out their crashing waves of desire and love.

As much as Marie loves the moment she comes, loves the buildup — yes, she'll even admit she loves his teasing — loves_ him,_ the moments immediately after, where they try to regain their breaths, calm their lungs, are some of her favorites. They've worn each other out, have almost had too much of the other, and she adores the way the love simply _lingers_ between them and melts into their bones. He tangles his fingers in her hair, and she lovingly holds his head, strokes his hair, softly whimpering his name over and over.

Reality eventually returns (especially for Arthur — his knees are more than a little sore), and their sense of time and place begins to refocus. Arthur lifts his head up and looks around his garden, a disbelieving look on his face.

"Blimey, did we just — ?"

"Yes, I think we did," she answers, giggling behind her hand.

And for all the hell surrounding them, awaiting them, he nuzzles his nose against hers and starts giggling as well.

* * *

_August, 1914_

The morning after the night Arthur first learned how Marie's skin felt beneath his fingertips — _like heaven_ — and she discovered how his breath felt as it echoed against the back of her throat when he kissed her — _perfect_ — he was up early to meet the grey, dissonant dawn.

He sat on the edge of her bed, trying to think of nothing and failing miserably.

But as heavy as his heart was — as much as he didn't want to throw his entire empire into a war, as much as he didn't want to be parted from her, especially now — there was a still sort of clarity hovering about the situation.

He doesn't know what's waiting for them all out in that grey dawn. The only thing he's certain of is that death is coming. But he does know, whatever happens, she will be by his side. Always, always together, the two of them, just as it always has been, always will be.

"I don't regret it."

"Hmm?" she replied, still half asleep.

"I don't regret the treaty." He blindly gropes for her behind him, finds her hand and squeezes it. "I have never regretted anything regarding you — except, perhaps, that it took me so long to tell you I have loved you from the very moment I first laid eyes on you."

_I want so much more for us than this love among the ruins. Do you trust me, my love? I am not the most optimistic of men, but I truly believe that, if we can only bear up against this war, we shall have so much to look forward to._

* * *

_October, 1940_

Arthur stands at the foot of his stairs, trying to remember a time when his house was ever so abominably quiet, and failing miserably.

He feels inexplicably fidgety, and wanders aimlessly from room to room, trying to find something out of place or something that needs mending.

Nothing.

("Be good," she told him with a wink.

"Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful, madam," he replied with a stoic wink of his own.)

He goes to his library and picks up the first book he comes across.

_I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful — a fairy's child…_

He snaps the book shut and tries not to think of the sad smile she gave him before she left, or the way her fingers lingered with his.

Tea?

Yes. Tea.

He takes his cup with him out into the garden, and as he makes his way to the iron-wrought table, he comes across one of her hair ribbons in the dirt. But how the devil did it end up out here?

Oh.

_Oh._

Arthur blushes to the roots of his hair.

He stares at the ribbon, clutches it so tightly his knuckles turn white, and angrily waits for the lump in his throat to pass.

_Damn that woman,_ he thinks, _damn her and her absurd amount of hair ribbons and her soft hair and her beautiful face and her constant habit of distracting me. Damn her for being so bleeding perfect and so fucking strong and fuck me most of all for needing her so much. And damn the Germans for taking her away from me and making me talk to myself in my own damn garden._

"_Patience,"_ a tiny voice whispers in his ear, tickling his brain and warming him through and through.

Though there is no wind today, there's a rustling amongst his flowers then. After a moment, the flowers' petals curl in on themselves, and everything is once again as still and quiet as it once was.

He looks at the ribbon again with a soft expression on his face, and pockets it.

Finishing his tea, he promptly walks back into his house and makes for his office. He rummages through his desk and his filing cabinets, piling all manner of papers on his desk — maps, lists, ledgers, supply codes, memorandums, phone numbers. He works throughout the entire day, stopping only for more tea or to take a moment and rub his thumb over the ribbon in his pocket.

As much as he's going to miss Marie, he knows he doesn't have to worry about her. She's one of the most capable people he knows, if not _the_ most capable, and she's going to be just fine. All that's left for him to do whilst they are separated is endeavor to deserve her.

He's going to visit the Underground tonight, he decides, and tomorrow, he's going to meet with some of his ministers. And when this nonsense with the bombs is over, he's going on holiday in Egypt. It's high time he paid his good friend Gupta a visit.

(And when he arrives in Egypt, her ribbon is nestled safely inside his uniform, next to his heart. It reminds him to be good, and of all they have to look forward to.)

.

* * *

.

**Historical/literary notes (feel free to skip):**

*"Love is best" and the poem Arthur reads are from Browning's _Love Among the Ruins_

*The Blitz, from Sept. 1940 until May 1941. The Belgian government-in-exile arrived in London in October 1940.

*Not that it really matters, but if I recall correctly, Belgium once said something akin to, "I tend to fade into the background because I'm surrounded by all these big guys," presumably referring to the rest of the Tomato Gang. So I've developed this headcanon that since she was owned by all these powerful male nations and kinda passed around from one house to another, she formed a habit of keeping quiet when shit went down, not saying anything to rock the boat, etc., until she gained her independence, and she learned that, hey, it's okay to speak up and have opinions of your own and disagree with people. She still falls back into her old habit from time to time, though. Poor baby. : ( I also have this headcanon that she's a great believer in nations getting along with each other, due to the fact that today Brussels is seen as the unofficial capital of the EU and is home to the headquarters of several major world institutions. This is just my personal headcanon, though. Hima may expand upon her in the future and make my entire rendering of her completely void. 8'D

*"This monstrous product of former wrongs and shame" and "wicked man" from Churchill's Sept. 1940 _Every Man to His Post_speech

*Churchill's August 1939 _A Hush Over Europe_speech for the part about Hitler being a liar and that if there was a war, the guilt would be upon him

*"License my roving hands, and let them go/Behind, before, above, between, below" from John Donne's _To His Mistress Going to Bed_

*"She looked at me as she did love,/And made sweet moan" and "I met a lady in the meads,/Full beautiful — a fairy's child" from John Keats' _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_

*"Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful" from Shakespeare's _Measure for Measure_


	4. Chapter 4

**Love Among the Ruins**

.

CHAPTER FOUR — A Girl with Eager Eyes and Yellow Hair Waits Me There

_September, 1944_

Upon further reflection, perhaps it wasn't one of Arthur's finer ideas to allow Alfred to accompany him and Matthew on their way to Brussels.

Along the main road into the city, Alfred spotted a stray kitten, and immediately scooped it up into his helmet.

"The sweetest kitty ever, _yes, you are!"_ he coos, bumping noses with the mewling kitten. "I'll take you home and name you George, _yes, I will!"_

"What if it's a girl?" Matthew asks.

Alfred frowns, considering.

"If you're a girl," he continues, "I'll name you Martha, _yes, I will!"_

"Will you _stop_ that infernal nonsense?" Arthur demands, a few steps ahead of the boys. "I cannot even hear myself think."

"I don't know what he's goin' on about, _no, I don't,_ kitty cat!"

"_Alfred!"_ Arthur roars, turning around.

Both boys stumble to a halt.

"Either you cease your incessant chattering on with that poor, captive creature," Arthur demands, "or you return it where you found it."

"No way, José!" Alfred protests. "This kitten _needs_ us! And besides…"

"Yes?" Arthur asks expectantly when Alfred only pouts and looks away. "Go on."

"Well…I think it's a good sign, don't you?"

Arthur, longsuffering, rubs his forehead and sighs. "A good sign of what, exactly?"

Alfred rubs his cheek against the kitten's forehead. "Marie loves cats."

Arthur drops his hand and can only stare at him.

Matthew reaches out his hand and gently rubs under the kitten's chin.

"Maybe when we find her," he suggests, "you can give it to her as a present."

The unspoken fact remains: They've been looking for her for days, and have yet to find any trace of her. The gloomy look on both the boys' young faces takes Arthur by surprise, but he forces himself to pay it little heed. Rome said she was strong, and if Rome said it, then it must be true, mustn't it?

He thinks back, then, to all the moments of his life when things seemed bleakest, but merely the thought of her and the knowledge that she was counting on him to return to her raised him up and kept him going. Surely it must be the same for her, he thinks — surely, from time to time, she must remember how much he loves her, how much he's depending on her to return to him?

"Carry on," he mumbles halfheartedly, turning and continuing on toward the city.

Alfred and Matthew share a worried glance before following after him.

* * *

"Say, Artie?"

"_What,_ Alfred?"

"Do you remember that one time — "

"No, I decidedly do not."

"You didn't even let me — "

"_Alfred,"_ Arthur snaps, his tone clipped, "there will be time enough for your idiotic questions later. Can't you see I've more important — "

They wait for him to finish, but he never does. Carelessly throwing his pack to the ground, he breaks out into a run toward the city.

"Hey!" Alfred shouts after him, frightening the kitten. "Where're you goin'? I ain't gonna carry your pack for you!"

He and Matthew watch as a blonde-haired woman runs and throws herself at Arthur, both of them toppling to the ground.

"Oh," Matthew says, softly, "I think he's found her."

* * *

"You're here!" Marie whispers, kissing all over Arthur's face. "You're here, you're here, you're here…"

"Of course I'm here, darling." He rests on his elbows and grins up at her. "Was there ever any doubt?"

_No,_ she thinks as she kisses him senseless, _never._

* * *

_He'll always be that devoted little boy to me,_ one fairy sighs to another.

_I'm happy for him,_ the other replies. _I used to be jealous, but how silly of me! Faithful Albion may have grown up and fallen in love, but he promised he would never forget about us, didn't he?_

_Yes, he did, and he always keeps his promises._

* * *

Alfred hands the kitten, still inside his helmet, to his brother.

"You know what this moment needs, bro?" he asks, shrugging off his pack.

"What's that?"

"A dog pile."

Matthew grabs Alfred by his collar. "Don't you even think about it."

"Aw, but Mattie — "

Matthew thinks of the desperate look on Arthur's face 26 years ago, in Mons — _"Where is she? Tell me, have you seen her?"_ — and his grip on Alfred tightens.

"This moment is fine just the way it is."

* * *

As joyous as Marie and Arthur's reunion is, reality soon settles in: The war is not yet over.

It hits her like a cold kick in the gut when they ask for her opinion as to which of her brothers they should liberate first. It's one of the hardest decisions she will ever have to make, but she squeezes Arthur's hand and finally decides that since Philippe is the youngest and the smallest, he needs their help more than Willem might.

"Would you mind if I came with you?" she asks Alfred.

"Girl, you ain't gotta _ask_ me," Alfred replies. "I was plannin' on you comin' with me from the start. If it were Artie or Mattie, you bet your waffles nothin' could keep me away."

And though she promised herself she wouldn't shed a single tear until the war was over, when they find Philippe, she holds him close and sobs as hard as she did the day she had to leave him behind.

Alfred's eyes start to tear up as he watches them, and he wonders if he should start going a little easier on Arthur and Matthew.

Well, maybe not forever. But just for a _little_ while, anyway.

* * *

The Allies are convinced that the war is nearing its end, but they hope, with Operation Market Garden, to liberate the Netherlands and end the war a little earlier than planned.

They don't.

The operation is, in most respects, a failure, save one: Though the northern part of Willem's land remains occupied, the south is freed.

And that's all he needs.

* * *

If who you are in the dark shows who you truly are, then this is who Willem is: A thief and a liar.

A thief, because he helps his resistance fighters smuggle as many Jews out of the iron grip of the occupiers as he can. It makes him sick to the very depths of his soul that some of his own people should be so desperate to leave their homeland, but he would rather they survive somewhere else than stay with him and die.

A liar, because the Jews he cannot carry to safety across the border, he hides.

Again: A thief and a liar.

…but also a brother.

He makes his way south one night, fleeing under the cover of darkness to reunite, if only for a few bittersweet moments, with his siblings.

He's a man of few words, but his relief and happiness at seeing them shows plainly on his face — his haggard face, even thinner and more angular than usual due to the Dutch famine. He faints once, but absolutely refuses to talk about it or let it become a topic of conversation. He only wants to sit and listen to their voices, close his eyes and let his mind take him back to better times.

One of the few times he does speak, he says: "You were right."

Marie blinks. "Right about what?"

Philippe is dozing, his head in Willem's lap. Willem looks down and gently strokes his little brother's hair.

"It was better to get him first."

Comfortable with the dark, Willem — the thief, the liar — returns to his starving people the next night. His stomach is still empty, but his heart is full.

* * *

_December, 1944_

The war in Europe won't end for another six months, but spring is coming. The dragon knows he's beat — and he's glad of it.

For his entire life — what he remembers of it, at least — Ludwig has been surrounded by a revolving door of strong, overbearing personalities. He has always sought to please them, has always completed every task given to him with commendable capability and precision. He was the apple of their eye, and deservedly so.

The Great War was meant to be their gift to him. He felt guilty, at first, for feeling so disillusioned by it, for not wanting another one, for not wanting what they all wanted so badly for him.

But then he realized: There is no shame in a child outgrowing the need for his parents.

And in his first act of standing up, Ludwig decides to never let himself be taken advantage of by anyone ever again.

* * *

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

The answer is none of the above, for there is only heavy snowfall throughout the Battle of the Bulge.

"Come quickly, mes amis!" Francis yells down the hallway of the command fort. "I have a little surprise for you!"

"Is it French food?" Alfred wearily shouts back. "Please tell me it's French food. I _need_ it to be French food."

"Non, it is even better than that — la belle Marie and her little brother have sent us a gift!"

Francis waits until they are all gathered together in the tiny hallway before he dramatically flings open the door of the main office.

And thus is his surprise revealed: In the corner of the room, tied to a chair, is Ludwig.

Francis gloats.

Matthew gasps.

Alfred whoops.

And Arthur laughs, for Ludwig has two black eyes.

"What is so funny?" Ludwig grumbles.

As his bewildered comrades look on, Arthur eventually manages to calm himself.

"Oh, my friend," he sighs, walking to Ludwig and clapping him on the shoulder. "My dear, _dear_ friend. You cannot possibly know it, but today you have made me the happiest of men."

Too tired to put up much of a fight, Ludwig only rolls his eyes.

"She wanted me to give you a message, Kirkland."

"Oh?"

"I am unsure of its meaning."

Arthur hasn't stopped smiling once, and his cheeks are beginning to hurt.

"Well, out with it, man," he affably orders, "out with it!"

"She asks: Are you going to wear the dress?"

Arthur doubles over with his next round of laughter.

* * *

_April, 1945_

When the Royal Air Force is finally able to drop food packages to the starving Dutch, Arthur manages to get a message to Willem.

_Your sister will smile as long as there is breath in my body.  
Do what you can, and veel geluk._

Willem is able to send one back.

Spring has finally arrived — no longer just a distant hope for them all, but a present reality — and the tulips are beautifully in bloom. He and his people arrange them into letters in the fields, large enough so the pilots can see.

_MANY THANKS._

A man of few words, indeed, but he has a feeling Arthur will understand.

* * *

_May, 1945_

The air in Trafalgar Square on VE Day is infectious, and though Arthur hasn't had a drop to drink (yet), he already feels dizzy and drunk, swept away as he is by the jubilation, nearly drowning in the elated din.

And how lucky he is, he thinks, to have Marie here with him, on today of all days. Though her government returned to Brussels some time ago, she conveniently found herself tying up loose ends in London this week.

"Congratulations, Mr. Kirkland," she tells him, smiling.

He smiles back. "And to you, madam."

"What are you going to do now that you've won the war, sir?"

"My darling girl," he sighs, his hand cupping the back of her head, his gaze lingering on her face. "Just let me stay by your side a little longer."

"Much, _much_ longer," she says, pulling him in for a kiss.

* * *

The fairies have seen fit to bless them with an especially bright and colorful spring. The flowers in Arthur's garden are awake and alive, swaying in the gentle breeze and popping with color, the bees dancing from yellow to purple to pink and back again. All the rubble from the Blitz has been removed, and Marie doesn't think she's ever seen his garden look lovelier than it does now.

"_Bugger me!"_

She stops pouring her tea and looks up, waits —

"_That's a sodding load of rot, that is!"_

She sets the teapot down on the iron-wrought table and leans back in her chair.

"Arthur Kirkland!" she shouts.

"_Yes, what!" _he irritably shouts back.

"You get out here _this minute_ and tell me what on earth it is you're going on about!"

Arthur storms out of the kitchen, the door clanging shut behind him as he walks out into the garden, a bowl of sugar cubes in one hand, the morning paper in the other.

"I have _never — "_

"Sugar, please, dear."

"What?" He looks down at her, blankly. "Oh," he eventually says, setting the sugar bowl on the table, "quite right."

"Sit down and have your morning cup of tea," she orders, dropping six sugar cubes into her own. "You know you're no good to the world until you do."

Arthur draws up his chair next to hers and flings the paper on the table. _"Look,"_ he sneers.

Stuffed within that morning's paper are special last-minute inserts — full-page spreads of photos taken during yesterday's celebrations.

"Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaims. "Just look at everyone, Arthur, they all look so happy."

Arthur scoffs as he spreads jam over their scones — which are immensely enjoyable if one peels back the burnt layers.

She furrows her brows in confusion. "What are you so upset about, though?"

"Keep looking — the last page."

He stirs the milk into his tea and watches her face out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly, her eyes go wide and she gasps loudly, reaching out to squeeze his arm. His tea sloshes around in his cup, and a few droplets spill out onto his trousers.

"Oh, _Arthur — "_

"Yes, yes, I know." He sighs, setting down his tea and dabbing at his trousers with a napkin.

"Look!" she squeals in delight. "It's us!"

Nestled between a photo of two sailors and their girls wading in the fountain and another showing a handful of revelers driving down the Strand, is a picture of Arthur and Marie, shot either shortly before or shortly after she kissed him. For all the excitement surrounding them in the picture, they only seem to be aware of each other. They're grinning like idiots against each other's lips, their noses bumping and their smiles bright enough to outshine every other photo in the spread.

"Oh, I love it, _I love it!"_ she cries, finally letting go of his arm. She can't tear her eyes away from the photo. "We look like — like — two of the happiest people in the whole world!"

What Arthur wants to say is: _For as long as I've known you, you have always made me feel like the happiest, luckiest man in the world. I love you to distraction and would do anything you asked of me. I am bewitched, charmed, yours. I adore every second of it and cannot wait to tell you so every day for the rest of our lives._

But he can't bring himself to be so honest, so what he ends up saying is: "We look as though we were two of the most _ridiculous_ saps in the world."

"Oh, but dear," she says, picking up a scone, "we _are_ the two biggest saps in the world — didn't you know?" She nibbles on the scone, swallows, then sets it down again. "Don't worry, though. I won't tell anyone your dirty little secret."

Continuing to gaze at the photo of them, she dabs daintily at the bit of jam on the corner of her mouth with the fourth finger of her left hand. The ring she wears glints in the sunlight, flirting with the one on Arthur's own left hand.

He seizes her finger, sucks the jam off it, and is pleasantly surprised to see a blush spreading across her cheeks — usually it's _her_ who's making _him_ blush. She smiles shyly at him, and it pleases the old pirate still within him immensely to see her so flustered.

"For them to take a photo of a private moment between two people like that," Arthur huffs, picking back up his tea, "not to mention actually _publishing_ it."

"A private moment?" Marie laughs. "In Trafalgar Square, on the day the war ended, in front of _how many_ people?"

"I blame you entirely, madam."

Leaning her elbow on the table, she rests her cheek against her hand, and smiles softly at him. "I know you do."

"_You_ kissed _me."_

"You don't always have to kiss me back," she reminds him, though she wouldn't have it any other way.

"Yes, I do."

He clears his throat and looks away. For all his bluster about the impropriety of having their photo in the newspaper, he's already formed a notion of buying at least ten extra copies of the paper. Tomorrow, he's going to sneak down to the newspaper office and ask for the original photo, or at the very least, a copy of it.

She takes the cup of tea from his hands and sets it on the table.

"Oh, _really?"_ She grins. "I think this calls for an experiment, sir."

And before he realizes what she's doing, she grabs his face and kisses him. He blinks and his eyebrows fly up in surprise at first — he's still not used to her, and doesn't think he ever _will_ be, despite all the years and love and kisses they've shared. It's wonderful, he thinks as his lips and his heart melt against hers, the gift he's received in her — she who was made to perfectly suit him in every way, to complete him.

He can feel her ring against his jaw; she's promised to stay by his side as they walk upon the earth together. Unlike the fairies, she has always stayed with him through the frost, through the rain, through death and war. He's absolutely convinced, though, that wherever she goes, spring will follow.

_For as long as we are together, my love, I promise we shall always have so much to look forward to,_ he thinks as he kisses her back, and the man — never to be alone, never to be separated from her again — was finally happy.

* * *

"…_and their soul shall be as a watered garden, and they shall not sorrow any more at all." — Jeremiah 31:12_

* * *

_The End  
_

_.  
_

**Historical/literary notes (feel free to skip) (man, I _really, really_ wish FF would let me post the links BT or maybe I should just wish not to be such a ditz when it comes to technorogy...):_  
_**

"A girl with eager eyes and yellow hair waits me there" from — I bet you can guess! :'D — Browning's _Love Among the Ruins_

*Cities in Belgium were liberated by Canadian, American, and British troops. Americans crossed into Luxembourg and liberated it easily as the Germans withdrew without a fight.

*Operation Market Garden

*the Dutch famine, a tragic consequence of Market Garden's failure

*Dutch resistance

*Battle of the Bulge

*Operation Manna: The Americans started dropping food packages a few days after the RAF began, but with a sillier, less poetic name. XD

Thank you for reading, I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing! _This couple_...ugh. So perfect for each other I almost can't stand it. EngBel has taken over my life and I'm pretty much okay with that.

Take care! : D


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